Albert Wesker's Worse Day Ever
by timburtonstolemytaco
Summary: Those days when nothing goes right for the world's best dad.


It was a bright, shining morn when Albert Wesker awoke from his afternoon nap.

"God damn, it's too bright in here. Where are my sunglasses?" he groaned, whilst the afternoon sun poured through his unshaded window like feces from the buttocks of a person who had senselessly consumed an entire package of Hot Pockets.

"Fuck!"

Albert's perpetually leather gloved hand slid with a furious agitation across the dresser top, but could not locate the sunglasses of which he was accustomed to wearing. He sat up and covered his handsome, sunglassesless visage with a hand to shield his eyes from the burning luminescens. With a deep fury that intwined his very bowels, he let out a hoarse cry.

" _CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!_ "

He threw the covers from his person and ran, barefooted, through the halls of his voluptuous mansion, down the spiral staircase, into the breakfast nook, where at last, he threw open the refrigerator door and stared while trying to figure out what he should have for breakfast. Orange juice, or Sunny Delight. Which would truly suit his needs. He pondered long and hard, then ultimately became distracted with food rather than beverage.

"French toast, or Eggos," he muttered to himself, his perfectly gelled hair cooling in the freezer's chilling kiss.

Eggos, he concluded with a nod. He reached for the box. It felt disconcertingly light. Gasping with rage, he opened the box and discovered its contents had been pilfered. No Eggos. He threw the box aside, clenched his fists and shook them with the utmost intended violence.

" _CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!_ "

Wesker, overcome by an animalistic lust for chaos and vengeance, rushed outside, pausing along the way to pick up his paper. The paper, none too surprisingly, was nowhere to be found.

" _CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!_ " Wesker screamed to the apathetic heavens above.

A bird flew overhead. A child on a bike rolled to a stop, ice cream smeared and dripping across their Cherubic features. Wesker made brief eye contact. The allure of strawberry-vanilla waffle cone with sprinkles shook him from his violent outburst, but only briefly. He sighed, gathered his wits, and walked casually to the local Baskin Robbins.

He entered the store, grumbling at the sight of a line full of increasingly impatient patrons, their sallow faces heavy with the strife of waiting far too long. Wesker folded his arms and slipped into the row. He thought about how nice having a full length mirror over his bed would be, and time passed rather quickly.

"How can I help you today, sir?"

Wesker's nose wrinkled at the sight of the , greasy, peach-fuzzed, pimply-faced peon before him. His appetite waned, but he proceeded with his order.

"You will give me a double scoop of strawberry and vanilla in a waffle cone, with an ample amount of sprinkles."

The young merchant of explicit genetic failure sniffed once, hesitantly rose to make eye contact with his superior, and croaked out, "Uh, we're out of strawberry."

Wesker's eye twitched. "Who," he spat.

The confused clerk flinched. His mouth worked before finding words. "Uh, I'm sorry, uh, sir? What?"

"Who," Wesker spat, his eyes conveying the bodily harm he intended to inflict if his question wasn't answered upon the next opening of the clerk's mouth.

He proved himself to be not as much a dullard as Wesker had thought. "Th-that guy!"

Wesker turned and followed the outstretched arm's direction. His eyes narrowed.

Chris Redfield, halfway through the door out, smirking as he sensually tongued a gigantic strawberry cone. He left with one passing glance at his handsome enemy.

Wesker sucked in a breath as the rest of the patrons dove for cover.

" _CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!_ "

Outside, Chris broke into a full sprint, knowing Wesker would soon be in pursuit.

And he was. Wesker broke through the glass windows in a violent clatter, scattering innocent pedestrians and breaking through a couple attempting a double selfie with barely contained glee. He made like T-1000, only faster and cooler, and in only a matter of moments, caught up to Chris.

"You vex me so, Chris," he growled into the brunette's ear. "I'm never quite sure whether I want to fuck you until you can't walk for a month, or tear your limbs off one by one while you scream for the mercy I shall not bestow upon a simple fool such as you."

Chris turned to the blonde and sneered. "You sound like my ex-wife."

Wesker pounced, only to meet head-on with the side of dingy red Pontiac Sunbird. The door opened, separating him from his prey.

"Chris, get in!" yelled Leon S. Kennedy. "We're going for tacos!"

"Later, bitch!" Chris bid the furious blonde a none too fond farewell with a smile and wave. The car screeched away, laughter seeping from the rolled down windows.

Wesker sighed. One day. One day, he'd get even.

But for now, he wanted a goddamn hamburger. Tacos always have him the shits.

The end or something like it.


End file.
